We walk out of the city five miles and pass through the military checkpoint to Bethlehem, a city behind the wall. Inside, graffiti and political art and personal messages grace the gray cement expanse, an 8 meter monolith keeping Palestinians in, or out, depending on how you see it. Near the top in spray paint scrawl: "I want my ball back."
We walk up winding streets as cars whiz past, running us down at the heels. I scurry across at intersections to horns echoing everywhere. Everyone honks here, reason or not. It makes me anxious, but Suzi strides along crossing into traffic confidently and, inevitably, they stop for her. I do my best to follow her lead.
We pass through a market along a narrow, claustrophobic path. Vendors stalls on either side spill endless goods into the street. As obvious tourists, we draw a great deal of attention.
"Shalom yes Hello! You are welcome in Bethlehem! Come in!"
We crest the hill and amble down a steep cobbled street to the Church of the Nativity were we wait en masse to see the place where Jesus was born. It was not, as it turns out, in a manger so much a cave, and so the long line of tour bus visitors snakes its way from the back of the church down a stone staircase into the holy depths. The cave is space enough for ten of us to crouch, two at a time, beneath a gilded mantle and run our hands across a silver sixteen-pointed star. I crouch and touch it and pause momentarily, but feel like a lousy pilgrim. Others weep, kiss the stone, lay their faces to the smooth, cold ground.
Back outside, we sit on the curb eating nuts and dried fruit as the call to prayer, a Muslim practice, erupts from a crackling loud speaker overhead. We look out across the valley toward Jerusalem and I spot what look like ruins, crumbling sand-colored rock walls and pillars. I ask Suzi if she knows what it is but she doesn't. Nothing under 700 years old, she says, is really worth knowing here.
On our way back through town, a man calls to us from his shop and we pause long enough for he and Suzi strike up a conversation. Within seconds they have made a mutual connection in Jerusalem and Suzi has discovered that this man is Shabaan the money changer's brother. He offers us similar hospitality to his brother, so we sit drinking coffee awhile in his shop, taking refuge from the summer afternoon. He sits with us between phone calls and tells us about his son, fifteen, a superstar football player who darts in and out of the shop. He tells us also of his former life, before the wall, when he could visit his brother in the city.
"There is no way to solve this now, with the wall," he says. "When I have problem with someone, I talk with them in person. Now, no talking allowed."
We buy ceramic cups and bowls from him and he wishes us well. "You are welcome in Bethlehem," he says as we leave, and we know that this is true.
Before reaching the checkpoint we are drawn into The Dollar Restaurant by the owner who, recognizing Suzi from her last visit, insists that we stay for lunch. He is a swindler, a master salesman who orders for us from a non-existent menu with a wave of the hand to his waiter. "I don't know how you spend, but is okay. Don't worry about price. Chicken sandwich, it is the best in Israel! You will have that. Salad? No, no salad. Oh okay, salad, medium? No, large! Large salad. Okay."
He bustles about the restaurant as we wait for our food and pauses intermittently to sell us a tale. He talks with his hands, the big meaty palms of a well-fed Arab man, and warns us about Jordan. "Don't go there!" he says. "They are terrible, try to sell you everything and take your money! Jordan, pfft."
We eat quickly, the sandwiches just mediocre and the salads truly terrible, and pay more than they were worth. On our way out the door he impresses upon us how decent a price he has charged. "You find a salad like this cheaper anywhere in the world, you come back! I give you your money. If anyone asks, you tell them 'Big salad! With cheese!' like this one and see if they can beat my price. I tell you, no, they cannot."
As we leave we laugh, dropping our leftover salads which he insisted we take in an alleyway dumpster. "Being an Arab man is all about who you know," says Suzi, and now Mr. Dollar Restaurant knows us. Reaching Bethlehem's edge we pass back through the security checkpoint, our American passports greenlighting us out of the West Bank and out from the behind the wall.
We walk up winding streets as cars whiz past, running us down at the heels. I scurry across at intersections to horns echoing everywhere. Everyone honks here, reason or not. It makes me anxious, but Suzi strides along crossing into traffic confidently and, inevitably, they stop for her. I do my best to follow her lead.
We pass through a market along a narrow, claustrophobic path. Vendors stalls on either side spill endless goods into the street. As obvious tourists, we draw a great deal of attention.
"Shalom yes Hello! You are welcome in Bethlehem! Come in!"
We crest the hill and amble down a steep cobbled street to the Church of the Nativity were we wait en masse to see the place where Jesus was born. It was not, as it turns out, in a manger so much a cave, and so the long line of tour bus visitors snakes its way from the back of the church down a stone staircase into the holy depths. The cave is space enough for ten of us to crouch, two at a time, beneath a gilded mantle and run our hands across a silver sixteen-pointed star. I crouch and touch it and pause momentarily, but feel like a lousy pilgrim. Others weep, kiss the stone, lay their faces to the smooth, cold ground.
Back outside, we sit on the curb eating nuts and dried fruit as the call to prayer, a Muslim practice, erupts from a crackling loud speaker overhead. We look out across the valley toward Jerusalem and I spot what look like ruins, crumbling sand-colored rock walls and pillars. I ask Suzi if she knows what it is but she doesn't. Nothing under 700 years old, she says, is really worth knowing here.
On our way back through town, a man calls to us from his shop and we pause long enough for he and Suzi strike up a conversation. Within seconds they have made a mutual connection in Jerusalem and Suzi has discovered that this man is Shabaan the money changer's brother. He offers us similar hospitality to his brother, so we sit drinking coffee awhile in his shop, taking refuge from the summer afternoon. He sits with us between phone calls and tells us about his son, fifteen, a superstar football player who darts in and out of the shop. He tells us also of his former life, before the wall, when he could visit his brother in the city.
"There is no way to solve this now, with the wall," he says. "When I have problem with someone, I talk with them in person. Now, no talking allowed."
We buy ceramic cups and bowls from him and he wishes us well. "You are welcome in Bethlehem," he says as we leave, and we know that this is true.
Before reaching the checkpoint we are drawn into The Dollar Restaurant by the owner who, recognizing Suzi from her last visit, insists that we stay for lunch. He is a swindler, a master salesman who orders for us from a non-existent menu with a wave of the hand to his waiter. "I don't know how you spend, but is okay. Don't worry about price. Chicken sandwich, it is the best in Israel! You will have that. Salad? No, no salad. Oh okay, salad, medium? No, large! Large salad. Okay."
He bustles about the restaurant as we wait for our food and pauses intermittently to sell us a tale. He talks with his hands, the big meaty palms of a well-fed Arab man, and warns us about Jordan. "Don't go there!" he says. "They are terrible, try to sell you everything and take your money! Jordan, pfft."
We eat quickly, the sandwiches just mediocre and the salads truly terrible, and pay more than they were worth. On our way out the door he impresses upon us how decent a price he has charged. "You find a salad like this cheaper anywhere in the world, you come back! I give you your money. If anyone asks, you tell them 'Big salad! With cheese!' like this one and see if they can beat my price. I tell you, no, they cannot."
As we leave we laugh, dropping our leftover salads which he insisted we take in an alleyway dumpster. "Being an Arab man is all about who you know," says Suzi, and now Mr. Dollar Restaurant knows us. Reaching Bethlehem's edge we pass back through the security checkpoint, our American passports greenlighting us out of the West Bank and out from the behind the wall.
0 comments:
Post a Comment